


Darling

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Kittens, M/M, Post-Inception, but in a them way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6814459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The first thing Arthur notices, other than 'someone's in my house', is the cat litter on newspaper in the kitchen. He hesitates, but then decides that anyone who moves their cat in cannot be a burglar, or trying to kill him, so he stows his gun. '</p><p>Eames has a knack of breaking and entering. Arthur gets mad. They are happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Look what I found? An Inception fic! It was called 'untitled 3' and it's on my cloud twice. One is only half finished, the other is this. Eames' pointman changed names somewhere, and I can't remember why I did that. I don't think there are any warnings. There's a surprising lack of angst or hurt or anything in this, for me.

The first thing Arthur notices, other than 'someone's in my house', is the cat litter on newspaper in the kitchen. He hesitates, but then decides that anyone who moves their cat in cannot be a burglar, or trying to kill him, so he stows his gun. He doesn't let his guard down and he makes sure it's accessible, though. It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you. He moves softly into the living-room, carefully scoping out the room before entering, and then huffs in irritation and goes to slam the front door closed.

“Hullo, Arthur,” Eames says drowsily. “Thought you weren't due back till Tuesday?”

“It is Tuesday,” Arthur says, voice tight trying to keep back his anger.

He does not want Eames in his house, and he most definitely does not want Eames curled up on his couch with a kitten, of all things.

“Is it really? I would have sworn it was still Sunday.”

“Sunday was two days ago. How do you lose two days? Are you drunk? High? Have you and Yusuf been experimenting?”

“I met Yusuf once, and that was with you and Cobb to pull the inception job. Why does everyone always ask me about him as if we're friends? Ariadne never asks me if you've been over to blow up the office recently.”

Arthur disects that, paring it apart to look for clues. Office and Ariadne mean that Eames is talking about his team in Mombasa.

“Did you blow something up?” Arthur asks. “Are you hiding? And if so, is it from Ariadne's ire, or something actually dangerous?”

“Last time I induced Ariadne's ire, I overheard her talking very seriously to Silver about an orchiedectomy, excuse me for being a little worried.”

“Silver is a very accomplished chemist, but not a very accomplished doctor. She can't castrate you.”

“Not cleanly or well! Doesn't mean they won't try.”

Arthur plucks the cat off Eames' chest and considers taking it's place. Curling up in Eames' lap sounds inviting. Instead, he hauls Eames' considerable bulk off his couch and sets about gathering the things that always seem to spread themselves across his livingroom when Eames shows up.

“Are you leaving?” Eames asks.

“No, but you are. You're not supposed to be here, and I refuse to encourage your career in breaking an entering.”

“It's far too late for that,” Eames says, making a sad face. “Why'd you take Soldier away?”

“Soldier? The cat is called Soldier? That's a horrible cat name. Why did you bring your cat to my house, anyway?”

“He's a kitten. And I didn't bring him, I found him.”

Arthur shoves Eames' things into a bag and looks around. He has to pack up the cat, too, he supposes. Except, if Eames' just 'found' him, it's likely that he has no transportation.

“I'll keep your cat until you see fit to collect him, but just remember that I might not always think to feed him. So, the sooner the better.”

Eames slings the bag over his shoulder and beams at Arthur.

“You'll look after him in the same anal-rententive way you look after me, I'm not worried,” Eames says, breezily, chin tilting up a little to the left.

“Go away, Eames.”

Eames bends to kiss Arthur, but then does as he's told, walking with the kind of grace and silence that can be terrifying when Eames uses them for evil. Right now he's using them in an attempted seduction that isn't going to work. Arthur goes to shower, and when he gets out, there's no trace that Eames was ever there. Except the bleeding cat.

Two weeks later, though, Arthur gets home from buying groceries and finds Eames asleep on the couch, once again, Tigger curled on his chest. Arthur plucks the cat up and waits for Eames to admit to being awake. Eames never sleeps deeply enough not to notice someone arriving, not without setting a guard of some sort.

“Ah, Arthur,” Eames says, stretching and yawning exaggeratedly. “You're home.”

“Yes. I've decided you can't have Tigger back, though, so if you're here to collect him, you should move on.”

“Tigger?”

“Soldier is a stupid name for a cat.”

“He's a kitten. Why can't I have him back? Did you get attached?”

“No. I'm punishing you.”

“Still? A man says one little thing in the heat of a moment, can he never live it down?”

“What? Oh, not for calling me darling. That was almost a year ago, are you still on about that?”

“For what, then? That's the last thing I can remember doing to annoy you.”

“For breaking into my house!”

“I like your house. It's nicer than my house.”

“You don't have a house. You live in an office and a casino.”

“If I stuck to one casino I'd be thrown out and probably strung up by my thumbs.”

“Only because you misspell everything.”

“I get tired of being perfect.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and stomps into the kitchen to put his food away and get dinner on. He feeds Tigger and then sets about making spaghetti, automatically making enough for two.

“Arthur?”

Arthur turns and Eames comes over to kiss him, which Arthur welcomes.

“Stay for dinner?” he asks.

“Sorry, I need to go. I'm actually here on business, not just to flirt with you or send you round the bend.”

“And up the wall. That's what my Mum used to say- round the bend and up the wall.”

“You don't have a mother, Arthur, you popped out of the mud in your Armani suit and Italian shoes, fully formed and ready to go.”

“Of course I did. Go away.”

Arthur kisses Eames goodbye and resigns himself to spaghetti for dinner tomorrow, as well. Or maybe he'll eat it cold for breakfast. He's got a job on tomorrow, it'll be a good start to the day.

When he gets home from Alaska he half expects to find Eames in his house again, but it's empty. Not even Tigger's there to greet him. There is a note, though. Found Tigger abandoned, saved him AGAIN. Arthur snorts and goes to let his neighbour know that the cat she was supposed to be feeding is perfectly safe and well.

He has to spend almost a month in Europe after that, maintaining contacts and fulfilling favours he stacked up trying to get Dom home. He finds time to fly out to Mombasa and stay with Eames, catch up with Ariadne, and commiserate with Eames' pointman Jacks about what a pain in the arse Eames can be to plan for. He even gets Tigger back.

It's nearly a year before he ends up state-side again, wandering through his neighbourhood with Tigger in his carrier and three bags of groceries to supplement the long-life things he always has stocked. He draws his gun when he finds the front door tampered with, leaving Tigger on the porch and moving carefully into the house. When he spots Eames eating at the breakfast bar he storms out, grabs his cat, and slams the door twice before going to yell.

“Hello, Arthur,” Eames says. “I made sandwiches.”

“So I see. You know, if you called ahead I wouldn't have to kick you out for violating my privacy.”

“You could just decide to keep me.”

“It would enforce bad habits.”

“I hurt myself.”

Arthur shoves Eames off his stool and commandeers the sandwich left on the plate for himself. He's hungry, and Eames makes a good sandwich.

“You just pushed an invalid,” Eames mutters, leaning on Arthur's back after putting the shopping away.

“I'm pissed off with you. I was hoping it'd hurt. What'd you do, anyway?”

“Sprained my ankle. Ariadne says it was entirely my fault and I shouldn't play football in the street if there are cars coming through so fast.”

“She's probably right.”

“It was in a dream, it was part of the job, and it was her idea! Plus I didn't sprain my ankle until I woke up and tried to run out of the path of the car that had already hit me. I tripped over my chair, got tangled in the IV and went crashing to the floor. No one was sympathetic.”

“That's because you're a pain in the arse.”

“You ate my sandwich.”

“Yes I did. Did you let Tigger out?”

“Soldier is sleeping on the sofa. He has a bite out of his ear, you haven't been caring for him.”

“He likes to fight, he's scrappy. Nothing wrong with that.”

Eames hums in Arthur's ear and tries to make him match Tigger, so Arthur kicks him to the curb again.

The next time, he's actually home when Eames arrives, working in the office on a research job. And Eames actually rings the bell and waits for him to answer the door. Arthur smiles at him to positively reinforce the manners.

“I do this every time,” Eames defends, holding up his hands. “It's just that you usually aren't in to answer. And I get bored waiting. And there's only so much to do in suburban heaven. And isn't it better I break into your house than your neighbours'?”

“No,” Arthur says, frowning.

He kisses Eames hello, though. Eames has a bag with him this time.

“Are you staying?” Arthur asks.

“If I might.”

“Who taught you manners?” Arthur says, smiling again to reinforce it.

Eames pokes his dimple and kisses him again, smiling against his lips.

“Sorry the last few visits have been rushed,” he says. “Busy year.”

“Mm. I threw you out, remember?”

Eames doesn't bother to reply, already on his way to the kitchen, probably to cook something that'll turn out either incredibly nice or incredibly not nice. Arthur follows.

Eames stays for three days, taking great delight in playing house-wife while Arthur's working a normal office job. Almost normal, anyway. Outwardly normal. Eames cooks and cleans and even makes Arthur a healthy balanced packed lunch every day. Then he gets bored, and Arthur gets home to a note instead. He's not surprised, Eames isn't really the house-wife type. He's almost glad- Eames' wifing was beginning to pall.

Arthur gets richly reimbursed for his research and takes a holiday. He leaves Tigger with a little girl on the corner, taking the cat to her so Eames doesn't steal him again. He visits Dom for a few hours, using 'work' to excuse himself when he realises he's still not very comfortable with Dom. He thinks that particular relationship may have been stretched beyond the bounds of friendship. He gets an early evening flight to Canada and spends a week skiing.

He's recruited for a job in Sweden after that and has an enjoyable three months on Källö-Knippla, the destination of a business man seeking the 'simple life'. The island is tiny, no more than a newsagents, hostel, steam room and diving board. It's great- Arthur has privacy, an excuse to ignore contact ('internet and reception are awful here') and easy access to the biggest swimming pool, the sea. The only drawback is jelly fish.

He spends the last week of the job in Gothenburg, tying up lose ends and sorting the online side of things (because the wifi really wasn't any good). He's not shocked when a knock on his hotel room door turns out to be Eames, but he is gently surprised.

“First, what are you doing here? Second, how did you know I was here? Third, it's nice to see you,” Arthur adds the last as more positive reinforcement for the knocking and waiting to be invited in.

“I'm seeing you, Jacks is good at his job and open to bribes,” Eames ticks off, then frowns at the third finger he has held up. “Oh.”

“Have you had dinner? I've finished work, so we could go and drink somewhere,” Arthur says.

“One of those jobs?” Eames asks.

“Except, jelly fish,” Arthur says, shuddering.

Eames grins at him, the smile breaking across his stubbly face, obviously well aware that it was an easy and enjoyable job. He lets Arthur get away with it though and even takes him to dinner somewhere with a decent wine list. When Arthur wakes in the morning, Eames is gone again.

Arthur's back state-side, four months later, after chasing around Europe after a piece of art for Interpol, as a favour to Cobb that he really doesn't owe. He's not in a good mood and he really wants Eames to be there, wants Eames to have broken in, so he can yell at someone for something reasonable. Eames isn't there, though. Arthur throws his laptop case onto the bed and drops his suitcase before stomping down the road to get Tigger. He's just fed Tig when the phone rings.

“Yes?” Arthur says, just managing to bite back the harsh words he wants to snap at whoever is foolish enough to call him.

“I'm in the area,” Eames drawls.

The accent is one Arthur hasn't heard on Eames tongue before, which is unusual- he's heard Eames with every accent under the sun, or so he'd thought. He'd forgotten Irish. Only Eames can sound Irish and Texan at the same time.

“What on earth are you doing?” Arthur asks, curiosity beating out anger.

“Oil tycoon with an obsession with his family tree,” Eames says, understanding without any problem.

“So you decided to mix it all together and see what popped. You're...”

“Coming to visit you?”

“Fine. You're cooking me risotto for dinner and bringing wine.”

Later, after a nap and waking to a table set beautifully, lit candles, good food and wine, Arthur sits back and breathes out in a useless attempt to aid digestion.

“That was good,” he admits.

“The risotto? The bread? The salad?”

“All of it.”

“There's fro-yo for after. And more wine.”

“Fro-yo?”

“Frozen yoghurt. Isn't that what you yanks call it?”

“Are you trying to wind me up? I only just wound down.”

Eames laughs and promises not to do it again, leads Arthur through to the living-room for a massage, sets him up with frozen yoghurt and then reads aloud to him from 'The Hobbit'.

“You're so English,” Arthur complains, but he secretly likes it.

Even with the weird accent.

Eames dozes off with his feet in Arthur's lap, head back at an awkward angle, mouth open. Arthur saves the book and finishes off the chapter, gets through two more by accident, and starts thinking about bed. He rubs Eames' ankle.

“Hmm?” Eames mumbles, wincing and twitching around trying to get comfy.

“Bed,” Arthur says, getting up and displacing Eames' feet.

Eames staggers up, eyes slits, and tucks his hand around Arthur's biceps for the walk to the bathroom.

“Toothbrush,” Arthur says, putting one in Eames' hand.

Eames trips over a pair of trousers on the floor in the bedroom and Arthur laughs, steadying him. He laughs harder when Eames walks into the bedside cabinet.

“You're so clumsy, darling,” he says, the endearment slipping out.

He pauses, but decides that Eames has earnt it back. He rubs over Eames shoulder and guides him safely to the bed.


End file.
